


Salvatio

by Pokytoad



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 05:31:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9804620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokytoad/pseuds/Pokytoad
Summary: There are times when Poland falls quiet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since this one girl told me that she can't stand 1st person I avoided it like a disease but now _I'm done trying_ because I put a lot of effort into revising this for 3rd person and it was a lot worse than before so _eat it_ !!
> 
> LietPol Week Day 7: comfort

It is well past dusk when I kick off my shoes in the hallway of Poland's flat, pulling off my suit jacket as I climb the staircase. 

"Feliks?"

The lights are off; all but the tiffany lamp in his office. He isn't there, and given the untouched heaps of ledgers and paperwork and thick volumes scattered about the desk and spreading to the cabinets and shelves and even the floor, lying just as they were the evening before, he hasn't been there at all.

The flat is silent.

I can hear the soft ticking of the hallway clock from where I stand in front of Poland's bedroom door.

"Po?"

When I push my way inside, I can just see a bit of gold wrapped up in the bedsheets, and I close the door, leaving what is left of the lamplight in the corridor.

I can only see his back in the semidarkness, and his tousled, golden hair. He's wearing one of my t-shirts, by the looks of it, because it's way too large and grey to be one of his own.

Silently, I set my briefcase and jacket next to the dresser and hang my tie on the doorknob before walking over to the bed.

"Oh, Feliks."

The words are little more than a whisper as I climb into the bed and slide over to him.

I know Poland isn't sleeping, because he never sleeps at this hour. His eyelashes flutter, pale, silent.

He doesn't say anything, so I pull him into my arms, tucking him into me, holding him closer, closer, until I'm cradling him. My nose pressed into that soft, sweet hair.

And we lie there in the darkness, because really, there are no words to speak and no meetings to attend and the darkness is enveloping and safe and complete.

Poland doesn't stir; in the folds of grey I can see one callused, ink-stained hand. I take it up in my own palm and press it against his chest.

"Do you feel that? Consistency."

His sternum rises and falls, his heart beats just as it always has.

There are times when he remembers, and he is quiet and empty and absent for hours. 

And there is nothing to do but hold him close, and feel his breathing, and silently wait for his return.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for incoherency.


End file.
